


arsenic and old lace

by santiagone



Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dancing, F/M, Fluff, Romance, also lots of fun veronica & jughead snark, essentially Jughead is obvious and Betty is oblivious, so; the usual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 11:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10684683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santiagone/pseuds/santiagone
Summary: “Oh,” says Betty, stuttering a little, fingers slipping from the edges of her book. “So you’re saying you—”“Wouldn’t be morally opposed to taking you to the dance,” Jughead finishes, a feeling of…somethingtaking root in his stomach. He, the intellectual, the literary genius, is suddenly rambling before he can stop himself.





	arsenic and old lace

“Oh,” says Betty, stuttering a little, fingers slipping from the edges of her book. “So you’re saying you—”

“Wouldn't be morally opposed to taking you to the dance,” Jughead finishes, a feeling of… _something_ taking root in his stomach. He, the intellectual, the literary genius, is suddenly rambling before he can stop himself. “If you needed a date. Since Archie bailed on you. We could make him realise—”

“Okay.”

“—that maybe—oh.” A pause, because Jughead hadn't expected her to say yes. His sole purpose had been to make her smile; to chase away the droop of her frown and the well to her eyes. Well, she's smiling _now_ . And suddenly he's got a date to the Jubilee that he never wanted in the first place. After all, flannels and burgers and Donnie Darko’s are _hardly_ welcomed at dances. It's not his scene, never has been.

But then he glances at Betty’s expression; the small smile tilting up her lips that she's trying so hard to suppress. And he thinks, _maybe_. Maybe he can join the scene for just one night.

“Right.” He blinks at her for a few moments until she stares expectantly at him, and he snaps out of it. “You’ve collared yourself a gentleman caller, Betty Cooper. You should make the most of it. I'm a _regular_ James Dean.”

Betty raises her eyebrows at him. That poorly hidden smile is still written all over her face. “Very funny.”

Jughead stoops forward and hands over the book she'd dropped— _Moby Dick_ —and grins at her, at the splotches of red on her cheek and the fact that she's forgotten how sad she'd been half an hour ago, when Archie had cheerfully informed her he was taking Valerie to the dance.

“I know. Just call me Ishmael.”

 

.

.

.

 

It's weird, this whole _dance_ thing. He's still not sure about it, not really, but Betty is, so here _he_ is.  He feels a little stupid, standing in line, queuing for tickets to this arbitrary Jubilee. He's getting a few weird looks, because Jughead Jones and any social event is like seeing pigs fly, but he just sinks into his fleece jacket and adjusts his headphones.

Or at least, he tries to, because there's suddenly _very_ insistent tapping at his shoulder.

It's Veronica. She looks very pleased about something, which is never a good sign. Jughead shrugs off his headphones and glances down at her.

“What are you doing here, J?”

“The same as you. Getting tickets,” says Jughead dryly, already grimacing at the gleam in Veronica’s eyes.  

“Yes, Mr. Darcy, but for _whom_?” Veronica presses. Jughead winces.

“ _Please_. No Jane Austen references.”

“Something wrong with _Pride and Prejudice_?” Veronica steps neatly in front of him as the queue shuffles forward. “Look, Jughead. I know who you're getting the tickets for.”

“Do you _really_ ,” says Jughead, but his throat tightens. He doesn't think Betty will have said anything, mostly because she's still holding out on the off chance that Archie will change his mind and ask her to the dance, but Veronica is quick to the draw.

“Come on,” Veronica says, rolling her eyes. “It's obvious.”

“The only thing that's obvious is your obnoxious shade of nail polish.” But Jughead hesitates. “What is?”

“You and Betty.”

He stiffens. His palms are a little sweaty, all of a sudden,

“Betty likes Archie,” he reminds, throwing a little scoff into his voice just for good measure.

“I know,” says Veronica. “Everybody and their dead brother knows that.”

“Murder jokes. Classy.”

“Let me finish, Shaggy.”

“Okay, _Daphne_.”

“Fine,” Veronica concedes, “Betty _may_ have a thing for Archie. But she's—and I say this with _love_ —confused. She's a small town girl, she grew up next to a red headed boy who treated her right. She thinks that who she's supposed to like. Every little girl dreams of getting married to the boy next door, to Prince Charming, and getting that white picket, suburban town life. And maybe she _has_ been paying attention to what's right next to her, but maybe she's been looking at it from the wrong angle. The wrong perspective.”

Jughead raises his eyebrows, wipes his clammy hands on his jeans. He feels like he knows what's coming—and it's not _good_. “Meaning?”

“ _Meaning_ , Jay Gatsby, that you _like_ her. And maybe she doesn't see it right now, but… she likes you too.”

“I don't like anyone,” says Jughead matter-of-factly. “It ruins my image of being a people-hater.”

“You don't like anyone—except for Betty,” says Veronica, all smug smiles and expensive delight. “I'll admit, it took a bit of sleuthing. Your elusive nature precedes you. But Betty let it slip that she was going to the dance with a date, and since Archie has Valerie and Kevin and I are soloing it, that left you.”

“She could be going with anyone. She could be going with Trevor,” he counters. There's a bitter taste in his mouth, which is strange. Jughead… well, it's not that he doesn't like Trevor, it's that he doesn't like people in general. But he's never done anything incriminating (that Jughead knows of) so why does he always feel vaguely uncomfortable when the name is brought up?

 _Because of Betty_ , says an annoying little voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Jellybean. He shoves it down.

Veronica crosses her arms. She's _still_ smiling. “But she's not going with anyone. She's going with _you_. And I think that counts for something.”

Jughead rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “You have absolutely no proof.”

“I don't,” admits Veronica, which surprises him. Veronica Lodge, supposed New York queen bee turned nice girl—admitting she's _wrong_ ? “But I do know that you spend every spare moment together at the Blue and Gold. And I do know that in the rare three times I’ve seen you smile—sardonic reasons excluded—it's been because of Betty. And I do believe that Betty is supposed to find her childhood _dream love_. But I don't believe that that love is Archie.”

Jughead pauses, scrutinising Veronica. “So you're saying—”

“I'm saying if you want to do something, do it now. Before it's too late, Clay Jensen.”

Jughead squeezes his eyes shut. She's right, in a way. Betty shares everything with him, on a daily basis. He feels wrong, keeping something this… well, he's not so egotistical to say ‘ _important_ ’, from her. But it's big. And it might mean something. He's just not so sure yet.

“That's a morbid reference, Sherlock,” he says eventually, and she just grins, like she knows exactly what's running through his mind.

“We lead morbid lives, Dr. Watson. You’re writing a book, right? Well—it's time to adjust the narrative. It's time to get the girl.”

Jughead cocks his head. “I'm not sure if that saying is ethically—”

“Buy the tickets!” Veronica snaps, rolling her eyes and pointing a manicured finger down the queue.

 

.

.

.

 

Betty's already sitting in their booth when Jughead gets to Pop’s. She's chewing on the end of her pen, frowning down at her books, and his smile only gets wider when he notices the fries already waiting for him on the table.

“Hey there, Nancy Drew. Some light studying?”

Betty glances up as he slides into his seat, and smiles. “I'm editing a piece that Ethel Muggs submitted to the Blue and Gold.”

“Ethel?” Jughead asks, already digging into the basket of fries. “Is she any good?”

“She's really good,” says Betty, and he looks at her, eyebrows raised. The truth is, Betty Cooper is too nice. Invariably nice. _Untruthfully_ nice. She bites her lip, and then lifts her eyes upwards in a sigh that sounds a little too fond to be exasperated. “Okay, it needs a _little_ work on the grammar front. Too many semicolons, I think. But she's got the _voice_ , Juggy.”

“Want me to look at it?” he relents, even though he's supposed to be hanging out with Archie tonight, even though he probably has a million more pressing things to do than examine Ethel Mugg’s journalism potential, like calling his sister, or helping out at Mr. Andrew’s construction site, or telling Betty Cooper the truth.

“You're the best, Jug,” says Betty gratefully, which really, makes all his other chores irrelevant. “But not right now.”

“What's happening right now?”

“I wanted to talk about…” She hesitates, chewing on her lip. “The dance.”

“Ah,” he says. He fixes his gaze on the table, because he knows what she's going to say. He's read enough young adult novels, he's seen enough cliche coming-of-age movies at the Twilight. This is the scene where she realises she can't come with him to the dance, because she's still in love with the lead, still in love with Archie.

“You can't pick me up at my house.”

Jughead frowns. “What?”

“You can't pick me up at my house,” Betty repeats. “My mom is on high alert right now after what happened to Polly, she’ll barely let _Kevin_ inside. So I’ll just come to you at Archie's. Is that… Is that okay?”

She's nervous, he realises. Which is a ridiculous notion, because he used to live in a _trailer park_.

“That's fine, Betty.”

“Okay. Because we’re still… We’re still doing the whole dance thing, right?”

Jughead glances up at Betty, and she's _blushing_ . Pink ear tips, crinkled eyes, playing with her hair kind of blush. It's kind of adorable (which is the first and last time that word will _ever_ be in his vocabulary).

“I promised, Judy Blume.”

“Good,” says Betty, and he's a little taken aback by the firmness in his voice.

“Good,” he echoes, a small smile playing at his lips.

 

.

.

.

 

It's a Thursday, and they have three days to the Jubilee, and Jughead might be a little bit, sort of, _worried_ about the whole thing. Which makes no sense whatsoever, because a town event is totally irrelevant and definitely forgettable—but here he is, frowning at the suit he'd had to collect from his house. Or his _dad’s_ house, he guesses since he lives with the Andrew's now. Temporarily? He's not sure.

“What do you need a suit for?” says a voice, and Jughead just about drops said suit in fright.

“ _Jesus_ , Archie, remember there's a supposed murderer around?”

“Sorry,” says Archie, who at least has the decency to look sheepish. “Seriously. What's the suit for?”

Jughead deliberates lying. He's not above it, after all. But he's _Archie_ , and they've known each other since before the first grade.

“The dance,” he mutters finally. Archie's eyes widen, almost comically.

“The dance? Who convinced you to go?”

Jughead throws himself on his bed with a groan. “Why does everyone assume that someone asked me?”

“Jug, you once said that you’d rather eat my socks than come with me and Betty to Melody Valentine’s birthday party.” Which, okay, Archie makes a _fair_ point. “Is it Betty?”

To which Jughead jerks upright so fast he just about breaks his neck. “Betty Cooper?”

Archie frowns. “Do we know any other Bettys?”

“You mean vanilla milkshake, cherry lip gloss, girl next door Betty?”

“I'm a little worried that you know the flavour of her lip gloss, but yeah.” Archie pauses, studying him. “Look, you're doing it again.”

“What?” says Jughead defensively.

“Looking at her window,” says Archie, and Jughead immediately realises that he's been leaning unconsciously towards the Cooper’s house this whole time. “Veronica was right.”

“Hang on—have you and _Veronica_ been discussing me? And Betty?”

“And Kevin,” Archie offers helpfully. Jughead closes his eyes and falls back into his pillow.

“Okay, I know things are bad when I start to become _Lodge_ gossip.”

“Do you…” Archie perches on the edge of his bed, looking a little uncomfortable. Archie and Jughead talk about everything—except liking girls. More specifically, liking _Betty_. “I mean, do you like her?"

“Everyone likes Betty,” says Jughead, looking for the easy way out. Of course, Archie has a special talent for making things hard.

“So you _do_. Does that mean you two are…”

“No,” says Jughead firmly. Then he pauses. “We’re not. I asked her by accident.”

“ _You_ asked _her_?”

“I asked her by accident,” Jughead continues pointedly, “and she sort of… just said yes before I could clarify. And I sort of phrased it as an excuse to… make you jealous.” A wince here, because he is entirely aware how cliche that sounds. God, he refuses to become a teenage rom-com. This is Betty and Jughead, not _10 Things I Hate About You_.

Archie contemplates it for a moment, reaching for his guitar. “Well, I don't think she's into me anymore. If that helps.”

Jughead raises his eyebrows. “Archie, you were oblivious to her feelings for _years_.”

“Yeah, but I know what that feels like now,” Archie protests. “And now I have Veronica to tell me what's up and down.”

“Conspirators,” Jughead mutters, and Archie glances at him, expression suddenly serious.

“Jug, she's my best friend. And you are too. So are you… serious?”

Jughead sighs, and thinks about it. Thinks about Betty, and the freckles on her cheeks, and the many different ways he could paint her in his novel whilst still coming up with the same result: beautiful. (Still slightly cringeworthy vocabulary. But it’s better than adorable.)

“I don't know…” he says eventually, “if it's a good idea to go.”

“I don't know either,” admits Archie, strumming a few melancholy notes on his guitar. “But do you really want to disappoint her?”

And that, Jughead figures, is something they can both agree on.

 

.

.

.

 

It's Saturday now, and the dance is tomorrow, and he still hasn't said anything to Betty—or at least, anything relating to the words _like_ , or _feelings_ , or _dance_. He has, however, managed to spend approximately fifty seven minutes talking about film noir culture, and Betty is laughing at him as they walk home from the Blue and Gold.

“You're obsessed,” she says.

“You're deprived.”

“I've seen my fair share,” Betty protests. “I grew up with you, didn't I? That has to count for something.”

“You do have a point,” he concedes, remembering the days when Archie and Betty would sneak into the Drive In during his workdays, curling up with him in the projection room with fake red vines and oversalted popcorn. Those truly _were_ the old, idyllic Riverdale days.

“I'm glad I grew up with you and Archie,” Betty says, out of the blue, and he had to bite his lip hard to keep from smiling widely. “I think I would have been a totally different person.”

They come up to the Andrew’s front yard, and Jughead leans against the gate. Betty hops up and sits on the fence, pink flats swinging carelessly off her feet.

“I think you would have been exactly the same,” Jughead says, watching her from the corner of his eye.

She laughs and nudges him with her foot. “Maybe a little less knowledgeable in the film noir department.”

“Maybe,” Jughead allows, about to retort with a sardonic quip, when the skies promptly open up and start raining buckets on them. Great. Forget _10 Things I Hate About You_ , now it's _The Notebook_.

Betty teeters off the fence and Jughead grabs her hand automatically to pull her out of the rain, but Betty stops him. She's _smiling_.

“No, wait, I like rain.”

Jughead drops his grip, rolling his eyes, but stays put. “Okay, Gene Kelly.”

Betty hums _Singin’ in the Rain_ under her breath, and Jughead can't help but grin. They’re becoming wetter by the second. Jughead's flannel is sticking to his skin, Betty’s hair is plastered to her neck, but she's still smiling. He's studying the raindrops on her eyelashes when suddenly his chest hurts, and he opens his mouth.

“ _Betty_. I—” His throat works. “I've been talking to literally everybody about this except you, so I think you need to know that I…”

“Elizabeth!” Next door, the front door has blown open. Alice Cooper stands on the step, waving at her daughter. “You’ll catch your death!”

“Coming, Mom!” Betty calls back, and then glances back at Jughead, eyes wide, a little breathless. “Juggy?”

But his resolve has washed away in the rain. He swallows, then gestures to Alice. “Mother Gothel awaits.”

Betty's feature softens. “I'll talk to you later, okay?” She squeezes her arm, and then she's gone, tucked away into the Cooper house.

And to Fred Andrews’ credit, all he does when Jughead walks in, dripping puddles, is raise his eyebrows, shake his head, and hand him the mop.

 

.

.

.

 

“Jughead,” says Veronica, appraisal (and a bit of surprise) mixed into his voice. “You clean up nice.”

Jughead rolls his eyes. “Thanks.”

It's seven o’clock on a Sunday evening, and somehow Jughead has managed to get himself into a black suit, brushed his hair a little, and stolen some of Archie's cologne. But the beanie stays. It always stays.

Veronica, Valerie and Archie are all sitting with him in the Andrews lounge. Mr. Andrews is observing from a corner, looking like he is valiantly trying to bite back his amusement.

“When are Betty and Kevin getting here?” Jughead asks, which of course, brings about the feeling that everybody is _studying_ him.

“In about five seconds,” says Valerie, peering out the window. Sure enough, the doorbell rings, and Betty and Kevin step through into the living room, both smiling after something Kevin's clearly said.

Betty's… pretty. Of course, she's always pretty, but she's lost her ponytail and her jeans tonight; instead, her hair drifts around her shoulders, said shoulders bared by a lilac dress. She smiles at him, tucks her hair behind one ear, and Jughead figures he's probably supposed to say something like, “You look really nice, Betty,” or “Aren't we going to be late to the dance?” but unfortunately for Jughead, he's short-circuited.

“You were right,” is what he says instead. “About Ethel Mugg’s voice.”

Betty's smile falters, replaced by confusion. “What?”

“I read her submission. She's really good.” Jughead winces, and if Mr. Andrews wasn't amused before, he certainly is now.

To his surprise, Betty just smiles, wider than she was before, and reaches out to take his arm. “I know, Juggy.”

“But Jughead doesn't want to talk about Ethel right now,” Veronica interrupts, apparently finished spectating Jughead's disaster. (See, _this_ is why Jughead doesn't socialise.) She steps forward, accidentally (?) nudging Betty, who has not quite seemed to master her heels yet and careens closer into Jughead, warm against his side. Her hair faintly smells of apple shampoo—which is much more attractive than any floral scent, because the way to Jughead's heart is through his stomach.

“You look amazing, B,” Veronica says, with grace that Jughead wishes he could have had. “And you look dashing, Kevin, as ever—but we need to get going.”

“Right,” says Betty, and before Jughead can do or say anything, links her fingers through Jughead's, her mouth turning up as she eyes his suit. “Let's go.”

 

.

.

.

 

The dance is, naturally, in full swing by the time they arrive (fashionably late, as Veronica declares it). Valerie disappears to join Josie and Melody up on stage, Archie disappears after her, and Veronica takes one look at Betty and Jughead and then drags Kevin off into the crowd.

“Very subtle,” Betty laughs, and Jughead gives her half a shrug.

“I'm guessing this whole… making Archie jealous thing isn't working out.”

“It really isn't,” she agrees, but she doesn't sound the slightest bit disappointed. Instead, she loops her arm around his, which is startling, but… _nice_. “Come on.”

“ _Where_ are we going, exactly?”

“Jug,” Betty says, eyes exasperated, mouth pulled in a fond smile. “You've been eyeing the buffet table since we walked in.”

Which really just proves, Jughead thinks, that Betty is the best person in the world.

 

.

.

.

 

To say that Jughead invited Betty to a dance, he _really_ hasn't thought this through. For one thing, he'd forgotten about the dancing. And the social cues. Actually, he thinks he may have forgotten everything other than Betty's smile in that moment. A very dangerous smile, it seems, because now he's here, sulking at the edge of the town hall, whilst Betty dances with Veronica, and then Kevin, and then Archie.

“Okay, sourpuss. I think you know what needs to happen now.”

Jughead rolls his eyes and turns to Veronica.

“I don't dance.”

“A week ago, I would have thought that you couldn't invite girls to dances, either,” Veronica says meaningfully. “Look, Chad, let's just try one dance, okay? She's been throwing little glances at you all night, and it's driving me crazy. You invited her, you came here with her. You should at least spend some time with her.” Veronica raises a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “You should at least tell her how pretty she looks.”

Jughead sighs. “I don't do sap, or compliments, Veronica.”

Veronica grabs Jughead by the shoulders and spins him around. Betty is standing on the dance floor, talking to Ethel. She glances up just as his gaze falls on her, lips tilting in a small smile.

“For Betty?” continues Veronica. “You do anything.”

 

.

.

.

 

“You've been holding out on me,” says Betty. She's still smiling—he doesn't think she's stopped since he'd somehow asked her to dance without making a fool of himself. Her arms are slung around his neck, his hand resting on her waist, and she smells good.

“I'm not sure if I'm reading for _Dancing With the Stars_ yet,” he says.

“Maybe a little more practice,” Betty agrees. Her hands drift down to his tie, almost absentmindedly. “Hey,” she says after a moment. “Thanks for coming to the dance with me.”

“I asked you,” he reminds.

“I know. But you meant it as a favour, and you didn't have to go through with it, and—” Betty's grip on him tightens, her eyes widening almost comically. “My mom!”

“What—” But he's being dragged off the dance floor, down the corridor, and into the back room before he's even realised it.

Betty closes the door, expression still a little wild. “She said she wasn't coming tonight! That's why it was safe to bring you, if she sees us—”

“Hey. Relax.” His hand finds her shoulder, and Betty loosens instantly. “Look, it'll be okay. We’re just friends, right, it's friendly, so she’ll be fine.”

Suddenly he's realised how close they are. Betty's back pressed against the door, hair slipping onto her collarbone, breath a little heavy from the sudden dash away from the dance floor. He's _right_ in front of her, hand still on her bare shoulder, eyes a little more at level now that she's wearing heels.

“Right,” says Betty. But she hesitates just before it, and that's all the cue he needs. He kisses her.

She's soft. Her hands go to press against his jaw, his curl around her neck, getting caught in her hair. She's wearing cherry lipgloss, mixed with something like fruit punch, and _Jughead Jones is kissing Betty Cooper_. He figures he could stand there all day, but suddenly the side door flies open with a bang, and Jughead springs from Betty, a little breathless, hands immediately finding his pockets.

“You will not _believe_ who I just saw Cheryl with. Ugh. That is Fifty Shades of Crimson I did _not_ want to see,” says Veronica, and then her eyes widen. “Oh.” Then she looks at Betty’s flushed face, mussed hair, Jughead's distinct expression of hoping the floorboards would open up and swallow him whole. “ _Oh_.”

“Hi, Veronica,” says Betty sheepishly.

“Hi,” Veronica says slowly. “ _Okay_ . I'm going to go and tell Kevin about Cheryl, and pretend this never, ever happened.” And then she backs out of the room—but not before mouthing something at Betty that looks suspiciously like _details_.

And then the door closes. And it's just Betty and Jughead again. She's chewing her lip, playing with her dress.

“This wasn't a favour,” he says finally, and Betty glances up at him.

“What?”

“I didn't,” he struggles for a moment. “I didn't ask you to the dance as a favour. Or to help you win over Archie, or—any other convoluted reason you can think of. I did it because I wanted to.”

Betty raises her eyebrows. She looks like she's trying very hard not to smile. (She's failing.) “You wanted to come to the town Jubilee, wear an uncomfortable suit, eat mediocre food and watch sweaty citizens dance for a couple of hours?”

“Careful,” says Jughead. “You're starting to sound like me.” She laughs, which pushes him onwards. “I meant…” But he's stuck. He's written several thousand words in his novel, he can write several thousands more in a heartbeat. But he's stuck.

Fortunately, Betty knows just how to unstick him. She reaches for his hand, fingers interlacing.

“I know, Juggy. I know what you meant.”

Which, Jughead thinks, is sort of better than _any_ confirmation. Especially when she reaches up and kisses him on the cheek, and she's still smiling when she pulls away. _Especially then_.

“Okay,” he says, because that's the most he's functioning right now.

“Well, we definitely can't go out there now,” Betty says, blushing a little. “Now that we’re not… platonic—” here, she stumbles a little, “—my mom will eviscerate you. And then me. In that order.”

“Maybe that's a good thing,” Jughead points out, tightening his grip on her finger, swinging their hands slightly. “I can't dance.”

Betty laughs. “Then let's not dance.” And she stretches up and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> betty & jughead are surprisingly hard to write, as it turns out, but i do adore them.  
> if you caught all the references in this (including the title), kudos! there are a lot. one would say too many.


End file.
